The Lamp of Fate eBook

Lady Arabella adored lions. Also, notwithstanding
her seventy years, she retained as much original Eve
in her composition as a girl of seventeen, and she
adored young men.

In particular, she decided that she approved of Michael
Quarrington. She liked the clean English build
of him. She liked his lean, square jaw and the
fair hair with the unruly kink in it which reminded
her of a certain other young man—­who had
been young when she was young—­and to whom
she had bade farewell at her parents’ inflexible
decree more than fifty years ago. Above all,
she liked the artist’s eyes—­those
grey, steady eyes with their look of reticence so
characteristic of the man himself.

Reticence was an asset in her ladyship’s estimation.
It showed good sense—­and it offered provocative
opportunities for a battle of wits such as her soul
loved.

“I think Mademoiselle Wielitzska’s dancing
the loveliest thing I have ever seen,” he returned
simply.

The old woman vouchsafed him a smile.

“Thank you,” she answered. “I
enjoyed that quite as much as I used to enjoy being
told I’d a pretty dimple when I was a girl.”

“You have now,” rejoined Quarrington audaciously.

Lady Arabella’s eyes sparkled. She loved
a neatly turned compliment.

“Thank you again. But it’s a pity
to waste your pretty speeches on an old woman of seventy.”

“I don’t,” retorted the artist gravely.
“I reserve them for the young people I know
of that age.”

She laughed delightedly. Then, turning to Davilof,
she drew him into the conversation and the talk became
general.

Later, as they were all three standing in the hall
preparatory to departure, she flashed another of her
sudden remarks at Quarrington.

“I understand you came to my god-daughter’s
rescue in that bad fog last week?”

The quiet grey eyes revealed nothing.

“I was privileged to be some little use,”
he replied lightly.

“I hardly gathered you regarded it as a privilege,”
observed her ladyship drily.

The shaft went home. A fleeting light gleamed
for a moment in the grey eyes. Davilof was standing
a few paces away, being helped into his coat by a
man-servant, and Quarrington spoke low and quickly.

“She told you?” he said. There was
astonishment—­resentment, almost—­in
his voice.

“No, no.” Lady Arabella, smiling
to herself, reassured him hastily. “It
was a shot in the dark on my part. Magda never
confides details. She hands you out an unadorned
slice of fact and leaves you to interpret it as you
choose. But if you know her rather well—­as
I do—­and can add two and two together and
make five or any unlikely number of them, why, then
you can fill in some of the blanks for yourself.”